by Kathleen Ellis

Yes, we have the tricycle
so slow is earthly progress
as the little girls next door
will tell you as they zoom
by on their three-wheelers.
The rider listens with her legs;
desire is a form of pedaling.
They were right to leave the
broken one beside the dumpster.

by George V. Van Deventer

                                            I pray daily
For the language of Johann Sebastian Bach,
His plaza of exclamatory, uninhibited,
Contemplative voices — children
Racing, sulking, touching
Each other at the plaza fountain —
Wet — their voices splash
In the baptism of play.

                                            I pray
Time deep within ourselves —
History braided in ancestral colors —

          Kyrie Eleison

That I might speak with the Navajo,
Banter in the streets with Bach —
Speak with the child
Stammering within me.

by George V. Van Deventer

The weather was harsh —
Low temperature, with
Snow changing to rain.
Before turning in for the night
I checked the thermometer.
A tiny mouse scampered
Across the deck.
It was warming itself
Off a small draft of air
curling
From under the door sill.
Mousy briskly leaped
behind a pile of snow.
I watched for a moment
Turning to shut the light and thought:
Mousy in the dark
            Mousy in the rain
Mousy not in bed with me tonight.

by Edward J. Rielly

The body lay on the side of the road
just off the pavement, its stomach on gravel,
neck and head stretched out so that as
I approached, my car slowing when I reached
the top of the hill, it appeared to be lying
in wait, watching my ascent.

Not until I drew even with it was I sure
that the creature was dead, or what it was:
a raccoon, its dark hair unbloodied,
the body full and fluffed, as if it had lain
down for a nap, awakened at the sound
of a car engine, of tires churning.

I was tempted to stop, to move this raccoon,
as if it were a friend, at least an acquaintance,
to a more fitting spot, to a burial plot where
I could lay it to rest, a dignified repose.
Instead I moved on, watching through my
rearview mirror until the dark body had
shrunken to a dot, then disappeared.

The next day it was still there, and the next.
Each time I thought again of stopping,
of moving its body to a place more fitting
for a deceased raccoon — where tires would
not whizz by inches away, where humans
would not see its gradual disintegration —
to an end all things once living deserve.
Instead I drove past.  The fourth day it was gone.